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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280331">My God</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno'>Calais_Reno</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Speculative Shorts [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Don't copy to another site, Epiphanies, John is a God, M/M, Magic, Pagan Gods, Tea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:47:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,009</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock acquires his own personal deity. </p><p>Note: This is just silliness, cabin fever, boredom talking. Not my usual dose of angst.<br/>Inspired by a conversation: "Why do atheists say 'oh my god' all the time?"<br/>No offence intended towards any gods, pagan or otherwise.<br/>Please enjoy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Speculative Shorts [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856791</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>209</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>My God</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">“That… was amazing.”</p><p class="p1">People don’t usually say things like this to me. Usually they say things like <em>you’re a freak,</em> or <em>piss off.</em> I’m okay with this because most of the people who say things like this are idiots.</p><p class="p1">But it’s nice to hear praise every now and then. Lestrade is rather grudging with compliments, but the fact that he always seeks me out to solve his cases means that he will occasionally feel obliged to say something nice.</p><p class="p1">At the moment, I am standing on the pavement, looking for a cab. A cold drizzle has started because that’s what the London sky does in January. I’ve just left a crime scene, on the trail of a serial killer, having rattled off my deductions. As usual, Donovan sneered, Anderson mocked, and Lestrade was simply baffled.</p><p class="p1">When I hear the voice, I’m preoccupied, but as there are no cabs in sight, I look around, expecting to see whoever is talking to me.</p><p class="p1">“Brilliant,” the voice adds.</p><p class="p1">Across the street, a small number of people are walking along at various paces, their minds no doubt wrapped around mundane concerns. There is no one within earshot.</p><p class="p1">“Do you really think so?” I ask, looking around.</p><p class="p1">“Of course it was. It was extraordinary, <em>quite</em> extraordinary.” A man, obviously. Not very tall or large, I think, based on the approximate location of the voice. (And yes, I can tell the size of a person based on their voice. I am <em>that</em> good.) A warm voice, little discernible accent, which in itself is odd. Everyone has an accent; they may try to hide it, but it’s there all the same.</p><p class="p1">I swing around, looking behind. “I’m sorry… I don’t see… where are you?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, sorry. Right here.”</p><p class="p1">The speaker is standing right next to me, beaming. Other than the look of admiration on his face, he is remarkable only in that I did not notice him until just now.</p><p class="p1">“What was extraordinary?”</p><p class="p1">His eyes widen and his smile broadens. “The way you figured it all out! Brilliant!”</p><p class="p1">“You were there… at the crime scene?”</p><p class="p1">He nods. “I was observing.”</p><p class="p1">“Scotland Yard doesn’t have observers.”</p><p class="p1">“I mean, I was assisting. With… the things. You know.”</p><p class="p1">“You don’t work for Scotland Yard.”</p><p class="p1">The man chuckles. “Well, neither do you.”</p><p class="p1">“I consult for the Yard.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, I know. You’re Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” Grinning, he makes scare quotes in the air with his fingers when he says <em>consulting detective.</em></p><p class="p1">“Have we been introduced?”</p><p class="p1">“Not yet.”</p><p class="p1">I wait for him to introduce himself. He carries on smiling at me.</p><p class="p1">“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” I say. “As you already know. I assume you know me because I am somewhat famous. Or infamous, if you prefer. And you are…?”</p><p class="p1">“Guess.”</p><p class="p1">“Guess?”</p><p class="p1">“I mean, that’s what you do, don’t you? You deduce things?” He wags his eyebrows at me. “So. Deduce me.”</p><p class="p1">“Names aren’t really something… deducible. Maybe you could just tell me.”</p><p class="p1">“No, no— you’re brilliant. I know you can figure out my name. C’mon. Give it a try. What do I look like?”</p><p class="p1">“You look like a very average, short, blond man in an ugly jumper.”</p><p class="p1">“Short?” The man looks a bit offended. “Well, I suppose it’s all perspective, isn’t it?”</p><p class="p1">I look down at him. “You’re five feet, six inches tall. Three inches below average. In other words, short.”</p><p class="p1">“Five feet, <em>seven</em> inches.” He does look an inch taller now, but perhaps he’s just standing up straighter. “And you’re over six feet, so I assume everyone looks short to you.”</p><p class="p1">“True.”</p><p class="p1">He claps his hands together, grinning eagerly. “Now, guess my name.”</p><p class="p1">“Bilbo Baggins.”</p><p class="p1">He rolls his eyes. “No.”</p><p class="p1">“Martin Chuzzlewit. Rumplestiltskin. Obi Wan Kenobi.” I’m not sure who the last one is, but it’s an interesting name.</p><p class="p1">He folds his arms across his chest and glares. He’s more imposing, I notice, when he glares. “If you’re not going to take it seriously…”</p><p class="p1">“I’ve made four guesses, all of which were wrong. The rule is three guesses and you give the answer. Tell me your name.”</p><p class="p1">He sighs, then draws up all five feet, seven inches of himself and announces, “My name is Metadax, Destroyer of Three Continents, Harbinger of Hades, Fomenter of Fear, and Bloody Bringer of Badness— well, to be honest, I’m a god.”</p><p class="p1">I stifle a snort. “Why just three continents? Are you a part-time god?”</p><p class="p1">“We used to have only three. The others weren’t discovered yet.”</p><p class="p1">“A god.” I consider the man— the creature, perhaps. He does not look like a destroyer or fomenter of anything. “Well, congratulations. Good for you, I suppose. I’m an atheist.”</p><p class="p1">He glares up at me again, turns with dignity, and steps towards the street, where a bus is about to rush past.</p><p class="p1"><em>He’s going to kill himself, </em>I deduce. Do I want to be blamed for taunting a delusional idiot to suicide?</p><p class="p1">“Wait!” I step forward. “Don’t—”</p><p class="p1">He vanishes into the traffic. That’s the only way I can describe what I see happen next. The cars and buses and cabs that ought to have flattened this cross little deity instead just go right through him. I stand staring for several minutes, expecting to see him on the other side of the street, waving at me, but he is nowhere to be seen.</p><p class="p1">Perhaps I ought to re-think my atheism. Maybe I’m more of an agnostic. In any case, I’ve just seen something that makes me wonder if I’ve hallucinated the entire conversation. I haven’t used drugs for months, and I’ve never had an hallucination before— visual or auditory. And even if I were hallucinating a meeting with the Divine, why would it wear an ugly jumper?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He appears later that night, when I’m playing my violin, trying to wipe the traces of the day from my mind. I haven’t turned up the evidence that I promised Lestrade was right under his nose. I’ve got nothing, so I’ve been ignoring his calls and texts while I try to figure out what I missed.</p><p class="p1">“That was lovely,” he says.</p><p class="p1">I open my eyes and turn towards the voice. He is sitting in the other chair, the one I never use because it’s a bit squashy and one of the springs is starting to poke through the velvet upholstery. I’ve been thinking about hauling it to the skip, but clients need to sit somewhere when they come to see me.</p><p class="p1">“You don’t use doors?” I ask.</p><p class="p1">He frowns. “That was rather rude of you, saying you didn’t believe in me when I was standing right in front of you.”</p><p class="p1">“What’s rude,” I reply, “is barging into people’s flats without knocking.”</p><p class="p1">There is a knock at the door. He gives me a cheeky smile as I stride to the door, prepared to see Lestrade. Instead, it’s Metadax, Destroyer of Continents. Standing on the threshold, he smiles at me engagingly. “Is that better?” he asks. I whip around and see him settling into his chair. A cup of tea appears in his hand.</p><p class="p1">My head whips back and forth a few times before I decide he’s actually in the chair. “What are you the god of? Tea?”</p><p class="p1">He does something with his finger and milk pours out of the air into his cup. Making a stirring motion with the same finger, he blends the milk into the tea without actually touching it. “No, that was already taken when I learned about it. I was originally a war god, but things have changed. I’m looking for a new domain.”</p><p class="p1">“Wars are still fought,” I point out.</p><p class="p1">“True. It isn’t the same, though. Violent conflict has declined considerably in the last century. Now it’s all detente and careful negotiations. In the old days, it was a bloody business. Jolly good fun. Warriors carried sharp things, not chemical weapons, and they had to look their opponent in the eye before gutting him.” He sounds nostalgic. “They used to close the doors of the temple of Janus, you know, when Rome wasn’t at war. Do you know how rarely that happened? They stayed open for so many years running that when their enemies surrendered and they finally had to close them, the hinges had rusted solid. It was easier to just declare war again than to try to get them to close.” He shakes his head.</p><p class="p1">“Interesting. I’ve always wondered what happened to all you pagan gods. I don’t notice many temples being built to Zeus and Apollo these days. Just churches, synagogues, and mosques.”</p><p class="p1">He gives a short laugh. “Not everyone believes in the Big Three.”</p><p class="p1">“Big Three?”</p><p class="p1">“Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Monotheism, as it is known— the One God Fad, as we call it. Once the idea caught on, people thought having different gods for different purposes was too inefficient.” He snorts derisively. “As if one single god could handle what dozens used to do! Atheism is the result. People lost faith. These big gods, they never really listen to the customer. It’s like mega-corporations, you know, terribly impersonal. Very profit-oriented. What good is a god if you’re just a number, on hold and waiting to be served?”</p><p class="p1">“So, what exactly do you do? I mean, gods do have jobs, don’t they?”</p><p class="p1">He looks a bit miffed. “Domains. We have domains, not bloody jobs.”</p><p class="p1">“All right, then. What’s your domain?”</p><p class="p1">“Well, I was War, as I said. I did Medicine for a while, once they’d split that off from Music. I’ve had more than enough experience with blood and gore, I suppose. I like to think I’m flexible, self-motivated, and a team player. Recently I’ve applied for a number of domains, but the market is slow. Based on my resume, I was offered Grumpiness, but I just couldn’t see myself doing that. I have my moments, but I’m really a very optimistic god.”</p><p class="p1">“There are gods for grumpy people?”</p><p class="p1">He nods. “It’s just make-work, really. Grumpy people aren’t much into praying and adoration.”</p><p class="p1">“You might have applied for Ugly Jumpers,” I suggest. “I see quite a few of them about this time of year. They should have their own god.”</p><p class="p1">He looks insulted. “What do you have against jumpers? This is a perfectly lovely Aran that was knitted by very nice Scottish lady. She wanted me to be the god of Knitting.”</p><p class="p1">“You turned her down?”</p><p class="p1">“No, I was Knitting for a few years. She died then, and the machine-knitters took over. I couldn’t deal with it, declared I was done with machines. I’m sort of an old-fashioned god.” He sighed. “At any rate, it’s been harder and harder to find a niche.”</p><p class="p1">“So, the Aran lady. She was your last… devotee?”</p><p class="p1">He nods and refills his mug with hot tea, which pours out of a hole in the air. “Do you have milk?”</p><p class="p1">“I’m out. Wait— you just poured tea from nowhere. Didn’t you do that with milk a moment ago?”</p><p class="p1">“I wanted to give you something to do,” he says. “Seeing as how I’m your guest. Gives us something to talk about. I could say <em>thank you,</em> and you could say, <em>no problem, tell me what other acts of devotion I might perform for you, O Mighty Metadax.</em>”</p><p class="p1">“We already are talking.”</p><p class="p1">“True, but you’re not very good at polite chitchat. We were discussing my resume.”</p><p class="p1">“So, you’re—“</p><p class="p1">“Currently unemployed. Looking for a new congregation. Saw you and thought, maybe you’d like your own deity.” He raises his eyebrows hopefully.</p><p class="p1">“I’m afraid I don’t need a god. I wasn’t just saying I was an atheist to be rude. I really am a non-believer.”</p><p class="p1">“Technically, you’re not an atheist. You believe in me.”</p><p class="p1">This is true. I am not in the habit of talking to hallucinations. “If I were looking for a god— which I’m not— you’d probably need a different skill set for me to consider you. Just being honest. I’m afraid you’re simply not what I’m looking for, god-wise.”</p><p class="p1">“Look, I can do more than War and Jumpers. What do you need?”</p><p class="p1">“As you observed, I am brilliant. I consult with Scotland Yard on murders, mainly. Could you be Murder? I mean, you were War, which is just organised mass murder.”</p><p class="p1">He looks thoughtful. “I am fairly organised. Might could do. But if the murder rate goes up in answer to your prayers, people will think you had something to do with it. A bit not good, I’m afraid.”</p><p class="p1">“I see your point.”</p><p class="p1">“Just looking out for my potential worshiper.”</p><p class="p1">“How about Bees? They’re interesting— and rather neglected these days.”</p><p class="p1">“Allergic,” he says.</p><p class="p1">“How can you be allergic? If you’re a god, I mean.”</p><p class="p1">“In my corporeal form, I am deathly allergic to bee stings.”</p><p class="p1">“Deathly? I thought you were immortal.”</p><p class="p1">“I am. But that doesn’t mean I like swelling up like a blowfish. It’s unpleasant. No bees, please.”</p><p class="p1">“Are you musical?” It might be nice to have my own god to take care of my instrument, replace strings when they break and keep it perpetually in tune.</p><p class="p1">He snorts. “There’s a glut of gods in music. If you want to know the truth, there aren’t many openings in any areas, and there are more than enough unemployed gods to fill them. Every opening draws hundreds of applicants. Really, it’s a god-eat-god world, all of us squabbling over Social Media and Selfies and Coffee Drinks and Mobile Games, all of us knowing that those things will continue subdividing until they vanish within six months.”</p><p class="p1">“There are seven billion potential worshippers in the world,” I point out. “Even subtracting the Big Three, there ought to be plenty of people who’d like a more personal religious experience.”</p><p class="p1">He shrugs. “I suppose. People are rather complacent, though. Like sheep, going after the latest thing.”</p><p class="p1">“You could create your own job, er, domain,” I suggest. “That’s what I did.”</p><p class="p1">He nods slowly. “Yes, I suppose I shouldn’t jump into anything.” He looks up. “Unless… maybe… Lack of Impulse Control?”</p><p class="p1">“Doesn’t suit you,” I respond with complete honesty. He really doesn’t look like a deity who would do anything hastily. A very sensible god, I think. “I’m sure there are domains that might be a better fit, something you could be known for.”</p><p class="p1">“Getting Up at All Sorts of Ungodly Hours?” he suggests. “Shaken Nerves? Being Extremely Lazy*? Do any of those grab you?”</p><p class="p1">“Not really. How about Getting in the Dumps? I’m quite good at that, and it would be lovely to know who I can thank for it. Or perhaps Hazardous Chemicals?”*</p><p class="p1">He sighs. “I’m afraid I’m not cut out for anything useful.”</p><p class="p1">It makes me sad to see him so discouraged. “Tut, my good fellow. You were a war god once, and war gods don’t surrender.”</p><p class="p1">“No,” he says gloomily. “They just create conflict. Nobody likes conflict these days. Everyone wants to avoid triggering other people. I used to trigger all sorts of people. Was good at it. Maybe I could be the god of Triggering Unpleasant Associations. What do you think?”</p><p class="p1">“Only if you enjoy receiving complaints.”</p><p class="p1">He sets his mug down. “Look, do you mind if I stay here for a few days, get things sorted out? I’ll make myself handy, if you like. I can materialise groceries and magic the laundry for you. If you’re amenable, that is.”</p><p class="p1">This might be useful, I think. I’m always forgetting to pick up milk. And having clean shirts and pants is always nice. “I am amenable.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">He sleeps on the sofa because the upstairs bedroom is full of Hazardous Chemicals. In the morning, I awake to find him deep in conversation with Mrs Hudson, my landlady. They’ve been going over the shopping list, and he’s been magicking items for her.</p><p class="p1">“The chocolate ones,” she says, handing back a packet of biscuits. “That’s what Sherlock likes best.”</p><p class="p1">“No problem.” He pulls a packet of chocolate HobNobs out of the air, vanishes the non-chocolate one.</p><p class="p1">“That’s a lovely jumper,” she says.</p><p class="p1">He smiles eagerly. “Do you knit?”</p><p class="p1">“Crochet,” she says. “And we already have a lovely god for that. I’m sorry, Metadax.”</p><p class="p1">He refills her teacup. “You can just call me Dax.”</p><p class="p1">“That’s a nice name. Very masculine.” She pats his hand. “When you do the ironing, remember that Sherlock doesn’t like creases down his sleeves. You might need the sleeve board for that.”</p><p class="p1">“No worries,” he says. “There won’t be any creases. I will flatten those shirts like an advancing horde. No weapons necessary.”</p><p class="p1">“My, my!” she twitters.</p><p class="p1">I feel a bit possessive, but I’m not sure why. Mrs Hudson is a committed Anglican, the last person who would want a personal god. Maybe a Crochet god, but not my Metadax.</p><p class="p1">“Metadax,” I say. “Perhaps you need a name that doesn’t sound like a heavy metal band.”</p><p class="p1">He brightens. “You could name me— I believe that would make me your god.”</p><p class="p1">Mrs Hudson smoothes her dress and stands to leave. “I wonder… What sort of name would suit you? I knew the loveliest man once who used to do origami. And decoupage. Very creative. His name was—“</p><p class="p1">“He didn’t ask <em>you</em> to name him,” I interrupt. “He said I could do it.”</p><p class="p1">She sniffs. “Maybe he can be the god of Rude and Thankless Arseholes.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Or Busy-body Landladies</em>. I turn to Metadax. “I just mean, if you’re staying here for a while, you’ll need a name that doesn’t draw unwanted attention. You need to blend in, I think, while you figure things out.”</p><p class="p1">“I guess you’re right,” he says. “I don’t want to attract the wrong sort of adherents. Maybe I can pose as a human until I get the lay of the land. Do you have any suggestions?”</p><p class="p1">Before we can negotiate a less heavily metallic name, Lestrade is at the door, looking like he’s at the end of a very short rope. He grimaces. “All right, I give. I’ve been trying to solve this thing since yesterday. No luck. Enlighten me, please.”</p><p class="p1">Now I’m going to have to act like a Rude Arsehole because I haven’t found the evidence yet. I don’t want to admit this to Lestrade because my trademark is brilliant deductions. “Really, Lestrade, what is it like in your funny little brain? It must be so boring.”</p><p class="p1">“Sherlock, the evidence—”</p><p class="p1">“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”</p><p class="p1">Lestrade rolls his eyes. Frankly, I hate annoying him this much. He’ll avoid calling me for his next two cases, and then when the third comes up, he’ll finally call, but force me to work with Anderson—</p><p class="p1">It dawns on me then that my new flatmate might be useful in other ways. “Perhaps you’ll assist me, <em>Doctor.</em>”</p><p class="p1">Metadax frowns. “Hm?”</p><p class="p1">“Who’s this?” Lestrade asks, motioning at him.</p><p class="p1">“This,” I say, flipping through my mental index of names, “this man, this very man, the one you see before you— is my <em>flatmate</em>.” <em>Nothing off-beat</em>, I’m thinking. Just an ordinary name—</p><p class="p1">“Flatmate?” Lestrade looks as if I’ve just told him that there are camels living at the North Pole. “You’ve got a flatmate?”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, good deduction, Lestrade. Well done. That’s precisely what I was implying when I said, <em>this man is my flatmate.</em>”</p><p class="p1">“Got a name?” Lestrade asks. “If you’re bringing him with you, I need to know who he is.”</p><p class="p1">Metadax holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m—”</p><p class="p1">“John Watson,” I insert smoothly. Not as catchy as <em>Metadax</em>, hardly the name a god would choose, but it’s ordinary, boring, normal. Not attention-getting. “<em>Doctor</em> John H Watson.” <em>Why not give him a medical degree? Didn’t he say he’d dabbled in medicine at some point</em>?</p><p class="p1">My flatmate smiles, still holding out his hand. “Destroyer of—”</p><p class="p1">I head this off. “He’s been abroad. Iraq— no, Afghanistan. Serving with the RAMC. <em>Captain</em> John Watson. Army surgeon. Just recently home.”</p><p class="p1">Lestrade takes the offered hand, giving him a funny look. “Destroyer, you say?”</p><p class="p1">“A bit of PTSD,” I explain hurriedly. “Saw a lot of destruction there, in Afghanistan. Enough for a lifetime. He’s all right, though.”</p><p class="p1">John Watson laughs. “A <em>lot</em> of destruction. You wouldn’t believe. I was—”</p><p class="p1">I have no idea what tale of destruction he’s about to launch into, but I fear it will be graphic. “The evidence, you said.”</p><p class="p1">Lestrade nods, not entirely convinced, I can see, but he needs me to solve his case. “Right. What’ve you got?”</p><p class="p1">“Well.” I have no idea what I’m about to say. “There have been some new developments.” I’m waiting for inspiration, knowing I have nothing. “I talked to the victim’s sister.”</p><p class="p1">“Figured that.” Lestrade waits.</p><p class="p1">“I was correct: he wasn’t a smoker, not of cigarettes. The ash on clothing was not cigarette ash, but from a cigar. Not a Cuban cigar, though. Nicaraguan. Only one company manufactures cigars in Nicaragua.”</p><p class="p1">“And? I’m not seeing where this is going, Sherlock.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m only warming up,” I reply. “Do pay attention, Gra—.”</p><p class="p1">Metadax elbows me. “Greg,” he whispers. “His name is Greg.”</p><p class="p1">How he knows this, I can’t tell, but he sounds sure. I wasn’t even aware Lestrade had a first name. “Greg. The cigar ash wasn’t conclusive. But when I realised that the murderer had an artificial leg, it all made sense.”</p><p class="p1">Lestrade shakes his head. “Maybe you could just cut to the part where you tell me where to find the murderer and we can all say <em>brilliant.</em>”</p><p class="p1">“It all made sense,” I repeat, feeling like a fraud. “Knife. Cigar Ash. Footprints. Artificial leg.” <em>Dear God, grant me an epiphany,</em> I pray.</p><p class="p1">Lestrade huffs impatiently.</p><p class="p1">My flatmate clears his throat. “What he’s saying is—”</p><p class="p1">There is a flash, as if a lightbulb has gone supernova. Lestrade doesn’t seem to notice. I look around for the source, but it fades before I can determine where it came from. And then, all the information clicks together, and I know. <em>I know!</em> It’s such a glorious relief that I can’t speak for a moment.</p><p class="p1">An elbow nudges my side. “What Sherlock figured out was—”</p><p class="p1">“Highfield Road,” I say. “Near the playing fields.”</p><p class="p1">Metadax smiles. “Brilliant.”</p><p class="p1">I am on fire from that point on. We find Jerome Casey at home, watching football, his prosthetic leg lying on the floor. Before he can strap it on, Lestrade’s men have apprehended him.</p><p class="p1">“I have an alibi,” he growls.</p><p class="p1">“Perhaps you do, but your leg does not.” I pick up the fake limb from the floor, twist the top off and pull out a blood-covered knife. Lestrade looks properly surprised, so I proceed to describe the almost-perfect murder, the murderer having failed to take into account only the uneven depth of his footprints, caused by the weight of the knife hidden inside the prosthesis.</p><p class="p1">Lestrade smiles, nods his thanks to me as Casey is led to the police car in shackles. We catch a cab home.</p><p class="p1">“Amazing,” Metadax breathes. “Quite remarkable.”</p><p class="p1">“You,” I say. “What did you do to me?”</p><p class="p1">He shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p class="p1">It had all come together, just like that. It was as if a shaft of light had pierced through my skull, illuminating all the clutter, letting me finally see the pattern. “You did something,” I mutter.</p><p class="p1">“Brilliance. Isn’t that what you do?” he says. “You’re brilliant. I think we’ve established that.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Brilliance sometimes needs a conduit</em>, I think.</p><p class="p1">“So,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I’m your god. John H Watson, your personal deity. Now we can begin the worshipping part.”</p><p class="p1">“Worshipping?”</p><p class="p1">“What’s the <em>H</em> stand for?” he asks himself. “Maybe Harbinger.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The following morning I awake, hearing a random clattery sound that is familiar in a maybe-I’ve-time-travelled sort of way. I made my way into the sitting room, preparing my mind to accept whatever is happening, and I see my Harbinger sitting at the table, pecking at the keys of an ancient Underwood.</p><p class="p1">“What is this?” I say.</p><p class="p1">He squints at the keys. “Obviously, it’s a typewriter.”</p><p class="p1">“I know what it is. What I meant was, what are you doing with a typewriter?”</p><p class="p1">“I thought I’d update my blog.”</p><p class="p1">“Blog?”</p><p class="p1">He nods. “A lot has happened, with the case and all. I thought my followers might like to hear about it.” He cracks his knuckles and resumes typing.</p><p class="p1">Perhaps I need to explain to my god how blogging works. “There’s no paper.”</p><p class="p1">“Hm?”</p><p class="p1">“In the typewriter. No paper.”</p><p class="p1">“Why would I need paper?”</p><p class="p1">I sigh. “Do you understand how blogging works?”</p><p class="p1">“Of course. I invented it. It’s paperless.”</p><p class="p1">“So, you’re the god of Blogging as well.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s more of a side-gig, really. Starting to fall off lately. Now everybody has a blog which they haven’t updated in seven months, and they’re starting to think that nobody ever reads their clever observations about their boring lives or looks at the pictures of their cat. They’re right. I make them feel guilty for not writing, but that only begets annoyance. No worshipers there. A few followers, some commenters. Barely enough to sustain a wood nymph, though.”</p><p class="p1">“How—?” I gesture at the typewriter, not even sure what to ask.</p><p class="p1">“Very simple, really. I just think of what I want to say, press these keys, and my words magically go into cyberspace.” He gives a final <em>clack</em>, smiles up at me. “Tea?”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, please.” I have questions.</p><p class="p1">“You have questions,” he says, handing me a cup of steaming tea. Two sugar lumps fall out of the air and land in my cup without making a splash. The tea stirs itself.</p><p class="p1">“Can you read my mind?”</p><p class="p1">“No, of course not.” He laughs. “Fear not— your inscrutability remains inscrutable.”</p><p class="p1">“Why do gods need humans? I mean, you make your own tea, and I’m fairly certain you could magic ugly jumpers out of the air if no one was willing to knit them for you. What is it about humans that you need?”</p><p class="p1">He blinks at me for a moment, chews his lip a bit. “Adoration, I suppose.”</p><p class="p3">***</p><p class="p1">The Blog of John H Watson</p><p class="p1">About me: I am currently the god of Epiphanies. Recently, I was worshipped as the god of Knitting. I continue to serve as the god of Blogging, as readers of this blog will know. Thank you for your sporadic devotion!</p><p class="p1">January 29, 2010: A New Beginning</p><p class="p1">Today I met my new worshipper! He's fascinating. Arrogant, imperious, pompous. Not quite a religious devotee, but he’ll come around.</p><p class="p1">As a flatmate, he’s a bit of a madman. I'm not going to be bored and I doubt we're going to be arguing about whose turn it is to pay the gas bill (his) or what we're going to watch on the telly (my choice). His landlady is lovely.</p><p class="p1">Well, all I have to say is, criminals watch out! As long as I’m his personal deity, Sherlock Holmes will be having epiphanies about you.</p><p class="p1">Note tobloggers: you should feel ashamed for not updating your blogs. Seven months is waaay too long to make me wait for more stories about your boring lives. You could at least post some cat pictures.</p><p class="p3">***</p><p class="p1">The next case hits a snag, and I’m all but banging my head on the walls, the table, the floor. Three suicides that aren’t really suicides. Even Lestrade is worried, and has finally begun listening to me. Someone is behind this. All the evidence is before me, but something is missing.</p><p class="p1">“Do it,” I tell him.</p><p class="p1">“Beg pardon?” He is watching crap telly, has just magicked a cup of tea and several biscuits out of the air. “What?”</p><p class="p1">“That thing— the epiphany.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, that.” He stabs a finger towards the telly, muting the sound. “That was a freebie. I’ll need some worship before I start doling out epiphanies. Mind, you’ll still have to find the evidence, but—”</p><p class="p1">“So, you’re the god of Epiphanies. Is that it?”</p><p class="p1">He grins. “It turns out that nobody else had snagged that one. They hadn’t thought of it— do you see? But I <em>did</em> think of it. Had an <em>epiphany</em>, you might say. There are gods of Genius and Brilliance, but that one little bit, the moment where you suddenly know— that’s me.” He waits a few beats. “Get it? I had an epiphany that I could be the god of—“</p><p class="p1">“Yes, yes. Do get on with it,” I grumble. “Epiphanies are supposed to be sudden. Could you please, suddenly, create one?”</p><p class="p1">He frowns. “As I said, the last one was free. Now I expect devotion.”</p><p class="p1">“Of course.” I rein in my impatience, aim for a degree of respectful curiosity. “So how does it work? Do you know what I’m thinking when that happens? Do I need to be thinking certain thoughts in order to receive it?”</p><p class="p1">He shakes his head. “I see darkness and confusion, and just turn on the light.” He snaps his fingers.</p><p class="p1">There is no light, no epiphany. “What was that? Have you lost your touch already?” I sound a bit testy, even to myself.</p><p class="p1">He raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like worship to me.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not—” I consider how to say this so it won’t sound blasphemous. “I’m not a worshipful person. You can ask my mother. Sundays at our house were always hell. The uncomfortable shoes, the hard pews, the droning of the vicar’s voice… I just can’t. The whole experience sucks some of the brilliance out of me. Can’t afford it.”</p><p class="p1">“There are other forms of worship,” he says. “People used to make sacrifices to me.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not slaughtering a goat every time I need an epiphany.”</p><p class="p1">“You could pick out a nice present. Bring home takeaway. Make the sodding tea.”</p><p class="p1">“Why? All you have to do is reach into some hole in the air and pull out whatever you want.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s the gesture that matters. Maybe you could just be extra nice to me. You might smile more often, you know.”</p><p class="p1">I paste on a smile. “How’s this?”</p><p class="p1">He shakes his head. “‘Fraid not. I can tell when it’s fake.”</p><p class="p1">“Please, John,” I say, putting on my best expression of adoration.</p><p class="p1">He frowns. “You look like you’re passing gas.”</p><p class="p1">“Fine,” I say. “Thai or Chinese?”</p><p class="p1">“Greek,” he replies. “And bring home some milk while you’re at it.”</p><p class="p1">Forty minutes later I swirl into the flat with gyros and a carton of milk. “Oh My God,” I say with as much reverence as I can muster, “I come prepared to worship.”</p><p class="p1">He’s watching a show about baking. “Why are they cooking in tents?” he says. “Is it atmospheric?”</p><p class="p1">“I cannot answer that, oh Deliverer of Sudden Epiphanies. But I have brought you a sacrificial lamb gyro.”</p><p class="p1">“Did you bring any baklava?”</p><p class="p1">“They were sold out. Sorry.” I think about whether the doner kebap stand one street over might have some. “Is pastry a requirement for an epiphany?”</p><p class="p1">He shrugs. “This will do, I suppose.”</p><p class="p1">I wait, watching him eat. When he puts the last bite in his mouth, he smiles. “That was amazing. Thank you.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re quite welcome. Now, might I have an epiphany?”</p><p class="p1">He smiles graciously. “I think dinner merits a small one.”</p><p class="p1">I wait for a bit, thinking about my case. All at once, I realise that I could have been quite happy as a pirate. Mycroft always said it was silly because I used to have motion sickness when we went on long drives, but modern piracy doesn’t even require a ship. It only requires a computer with a modem, and one can illegally reproduce and distribute software, music, even movies—</p><p class="p1">“Not that kind of epiphany!” I growl once I realise what he’s done. “I’m trying to solve a case.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh.” He looks apologetic. “I was hoping you’d at least think about piracy. I used to dabble in it, after warfare started falling off. You’d look quite fetching in an eyepatch.”</p><p class="p1">“What kind of a rubbish god are you?” I yell. “In this type of work, time is of the essence. I can’t wait around while you—“</p><p class="p1">“It’s the nature of an epiphany to be unpredictable,” he says. “A steady stream of worship might help, though. And I don’t just mean takeaway when you’re under pressure.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s the nature of <em>me</em> to be stroppy and ungrateful,” I reply. “I didn’t choose you, remember— you just appeared. And ever since, you’ve been trying to sell me on this god idea. I told you: I’m an <em>atheist</em>!”</p><p class="p1">I spit the word at him like profanity. He visibly cringes.</p><p class="p1">But my rage is not over. “The world doesn’t need gods— it never did,” I sneer. “All gods do is start wars, make people crazy for things that don’t matter, make us all waste our time pretending to be afraid of egocentric beings who can’t even fix the simplest problems.”</p><p class="p1">“What problems?” he asks. “I’m good at problems.”</p><p class="p1">“Problems? All right, let’s talk about problems. Why is English spelling so fucked up? What god took charge of <em>that</em> and didn’t get rid of silent letters? And why, when we go to the shops, do we leave without the one really necessary item we went in for? Hm? God of Shopping, where are you? And don’t get me started on socks: socks that don’t stay up, socks that disappear in the washer, socks that match until you’re in a meeting, sitting with your legs crossed. I’d like a word with that god.“</p><p class="p1">“All right,” he says, looking a bit dejected. “You’ve made your point. I’m not a very good god. Even the knitters complained— dropped stitches, mostly. And dye lots. They used to pray about that sometimes. Perhaps it was a mistake for me to think I could handle epiphanies. I thought I could be useful to you.”</p><p class="p1">“I do <em>not</em> need a god.” I say this emphatically, stabbing my finger at him.</p><p class="p1">“Then why—“ He clenches his fists. “My god! How many times a day do humans say those words? They mutter, they laugh, they cry, they scream: <em>my god!</em> Humans are capable of solving many problems. The mystery is why they don’t, why they keep praying, <em>my god!</em> You’re right; humans don’t need gods. But you want them to solve all your problems, nonetheless. And we can’t stop ourselves from rushing to your aid. That’s what being a god means— being a slave to human needs. Your adoration is our ambrosia. We would rather be cursed at than ignored. If humans stopped calling on us for twenty-four hours, we would all disappear.”</p><p class="p1">He raises his fingers, as if he’s about to snap them.</p><p class="p1">“Wait! John—“</p><p class="p1">He takes a step back, sniffs, and bites his lip. “I just wanted you to like me.”</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t disappear all at once, but sort of fades. I can see the wallpaper through him, and then he’s like mist. His left eye lingers for a moment, staring at me accusingly.</p><p class="p1">“John, please! My god!”</p><p class="p1">But he has already faded to nothing.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Twenty-four hours later, I am pacing around the flat. Hearing familiar feet on the stairs, quickly ascending, I know that there must be a fourth victim, but this time something is different.</p><p class="p1">Lestrade appears at the door.</p><p class="p1">“Where?” I ask.</p><p class="p1">“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.”</p><p class="p1">“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t come to me if there weren’t something different.”</p><p class="p1">He smiles grimly. “A note.”</p><p class="p1">I gather my things, holler to Mrs Hudson that I’ll be out late and might need some food, and follow Lestrade down the stairs.</p><p class="p1">She comes out of her flat, holding her knitting. “Not your housekeeper, dear.”</p><p class="p1">“Something cold will do,” I reply, pushing the front door open.</p><p class="p1">On the pavement, I stop, thinking. “Something was different,” I say.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, I said. A note.” Lestrade motions impatiently. “Will you come?”</p><p class="p1">“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”</p><p class="p1">Lestrade climbs into the car. “Suit yourself.”</p><p class="p1">“Mrs Hudson!” I push the door open, stride towards her door. “Mrs Hudson!”</p><p class="p1">She opens the door, peers up at me. “What’s the matter?”</p><p class="p1">“Where is he?”</p><p class="p1">“Who?”</p><p class="p1">I push past her. “John Watson! Show yourself!”</p><p class="p1">“What are you shouting about?” she asks. “He’s not here.”</p><p class="p1">“But he was,” I say. “You’re holding two knitting needles, Mrs Hudson. Why is that? I know for a fact that <em>you do not knit.</em> Crochet is your game. So, why are you holding knitting needles? Because he’s been here!”</p><p class="p1">“What are you talking about?”</p><p class="p1">“I’m talking about Metadax, God of Knitting, Creator of Ugly Jumpers, Savior of Dropped Stitches! You’re teaching yourself to knit, and you called on him.”</p><p class="p1">She sniffs. “What if I did? You didn’t seem to be getting along very well with him. I dropped some stitches, might have cursed a bit. And he came to my aid.” She shakes the needles in my face. “I gave him biscuits. How’s that for worship?”</p><p class="p1">“He’s mine, Mrs Hudson. I named him, and I alone will worship him!”</p><p class="p1">“We’ll see,” she says, closing her door.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">I arrive at the crime scene, irritably push past Sally Donovan, climb the stairs to the room where the body lies. Anderson stops me at the door. “It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?”</p><p class="p1">“I’ll give you two minutes,” Lestrade says. “Name’s Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards.”</p><p class="p1">I kneel down next to the body and try to think. Information is here, in front of me, but I grope like a blind man.</p><p class="p1">Letters are scratched into the floor boards: RACHE.</p><p class="p1">Her coat is wet.</p><p class="p1">Her umbrella is dry.</p><p class="p1">Her jewellery is clean, except for her engagement and wedding ring.</p><p class="p1">All of it means something, but I have no idea what.</p><p class="p1">“Oh my god!” I whisper.</p><p class="p1">Lestrade moves quickly to my side. “What is it?”</p><p class="p1">“Two minutes, you said,” I remind him.</p><p class="p1">He steps back.</p><p class="p1">“My god.” I have little experience in prayer, but can remember the prayers I learned as a child, which were intended for a different God entirely, one of the Big Three. He probably won’t notice if I edit His prayer a bit, I think. “John Harbinger Watson, Conductor of my Light, Bringer of Tea and Epiphanies, Wearer of Jumpers, I humbly beg you to be present now. Inspire me and reveal to me the truth, and I will always worship you, and only you.”</p><p class="p1">“That’s not very specific,” he says.</p><p class="p1">“John!” I turn, and there he is, looking grumpy. “You’re here!”</p><p class="p1">“Of course I’m here. I can’t abandon my only devotee, even if he is a dick.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry— please help me! There are clues here, but I can’t put them together into any kind of meaningful pattern.” I pause, seeing his frown. “Please, John. I need an epiphany.”</p><p class="p1">“Mrs Hudson gave me biscuits,” he says. “And she called me <em>love</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“I don’t have any biscuits on me. Love— I can call you <em>love</em>. I’ll call you anything you want. What do you want John? Anything.”</p><p class="p1">He narrows his eyes at me. “Anything?”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, as I said.”</p><p class="p1">“Kiss me.”</p><p class="p1">“Kiss you?”</p><p class="p1">“You heard me.” His ears are turning a bit pink. “I want you to kiss me.”</p><p class="p1">“Kiss you. All right, fine.” I lean towards him and plant a kiss on his cheek. “How was that?”</p><p class="p1">“As kisses go, it was about a two,” he replies. “That was the kind of kiss you give your grandmother. I want a proper kiss.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not an experienced kisser,” I object.</p><p class="p1">He stands and beckons. “Up here, human. Put your arms around me.”</p><p class="p1">Rising to my feet, I encircle him with my arms. “All right?”</p><p class="p1">“Yes. Now, lean towards me, close your eyes, and kiss me like you mean it.”</p><p class="p1">It starts soft. His mouth tastes like honey, and I wonder if his divinity is naturally sweet, or if he’s doing that for me. My tongue meets his, and I explore his mouth.</p><p class="p1">“Mm,” I say, pulling him closer. He’s warm and soft and— oh. He’s hard, too. I’m hard. I’ve never kissed a god, and I suddenly realise that he is perfect. “I worship you,” I breathe. “God, how I adore you.”</p><p class="p1">Footsteps. “I said two minutes, Sherlock— what are you— where did he come from?” Lestrade is gaping at us.</p><p class="p1">“Suitcase,” I say, nuzzling John’s ear. “Married ten years, a string of lovers who never knew. Too much wind to use an umbrella, rained in Cardiff today, intended to stay overnight, daughter named Rachel—“</p><p class="p1">“<em>Rache</em>,” says Anderson. “The German word for revenge. She was trying to say—“</p><p class="p1">“Splash marks on the backs of her right calf, wheeled overnight bag— find the suitcase!”</p><p class="p1">“There was no suitcase,” Lestrade says. He frowns at John. “You’re the army doctor. John Watson.”</p><p class="p1">“Pink,” I say. “Come along, John. I mean, if you want to.”</p><p class="p1">“Tell me again how you adore me.” He is no longer grumpy, but smiling.</p><p class="p1">“My god, you are perfect. My adoration is infinite and without end. Now, let’s go find the suitcase.”</p><p class="p1">Lestrade huffs impatiently. “Why do you keep saying <em>suitcase</em>?”</p><p class="p1">“We have ourselves a serial killer!” I clap my hands together. “I love those! Well, not as much as I love you, John. But this one has made a mistake!”</p><p class="p1">“What mistake?”</p><p class="p1">“Pink!”</p><p class="p1">He smiles. “Brilliant!”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Living with a god is not all instant cups of hot tea and serial murderers. Gods get grumpy when you don’t talk to them for days on end. They vanish the strings on your violin when you don’t play something they like. When they want gyros, it doesn’t matter if you’re in the middle of an experiment.</p><p class="p1">But it’s wonderful, too, and I don’t just mean the epiphanies. When that flash of light happens and suddenly you <em>know… </em>well, it’s like falling in love. And loving John is wonderful.</p><p class="p1">“Do you know,” he says one night. We’re lying in each other’s arms, in a state of after-bliss.</p><p class="p1">“I know that I adore you.” I smile and give him a number ten kiss, the kind I reserve for private moments with him.</p><p class="p1">“I think I’ve had an epiphany,” he says.</p><p class="p1">“Fitting, since you’re in charge of that. What do you realise?”</p><p class="p1">“I crave adoration. All gods do. But I adore you as well.”</p><p class="p1">“You do?”</p><p class="p1">“I didn’t expect to feel that.” He sighs and settles against me, holding me close. “I adore you. My god, how I adore you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*These descriptions are from A Study in Scarlet, where Watson describes his own shortcomings: "... I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy.”<br/>Holmes describes his vices thus: “I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments… I get in the dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end.”</p></blockquote></div></div>
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